


Anything You Say (But I'd Rather You Didn't)

by twinSky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Happy Ending tho, M/M, Nogitsune Trauma, Witches, a lot more than i had initially intended, post 3b
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2018-01-24 04:37:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1591919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinSky/pseuds/twinSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He feels a deep emotional connection to Ella from Ella Enchanted, obedience sucks so hard.<br/>(Except, unlike Ella, looking hard into a mirror and saying “you will not be obedient anymore” doesn’t work at all. He would know, he tried for a good half hour.<br/>So, he kind of hates her too, but, then again, he hasn’t held a knife to the back of his ‘one true love’ so they’re probably even. Probably.)<br/>-<br/>Or, Stiles gets hit by an obedience spell and it is nowhere near as cute or funny as Ella Enchanted made it out to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything You Say (But I'd Rather You Didn't)

**Author's Note:**

> [EDIT: 5/25/2014]  
> idk if doing this will make it pop back up on page one and if so sorry? didn't want that to happen but i've been forgetting to switch 'em  
> -  
> Warning for; description of a panic attack and character death, it's Allison in a dream
> 
> This was initially supposed to be short and cute and sweet but then it became post 3B and then it became rather sad in my opinion.  
> Canon compliant to that Allison -and Aiden -are dead, the Nogitsune is defeated, and Kate comes back (thought by the time this fic starts she's already been dealt with). Canon divergence in which Isaac has not left however.

All Stiles is really learning from this, decidedly horrible, moment is that witches suck, covens suck.

Beacon Hills undoubtedly sucks.

How many other towns can’t go a goddamn month without one thing or another attacking?

Well, to be honest, Stiles isn’t sure the witches actually meant to do anything bad; sure, they were passing through town unannounced and animals were acting a bit rowdier than normal. (Which wasn’t as worrying as it could be because it was nowhere near the intensity of the Darach and for the most part they chalked it off as just a reaction to a sudden increase in magic.) But they weren’t doing anything  _dangerous_ , of course though, as it always does in Beacon Hills, something went wrong somewhere –Stiles doesn’t even  _know_  where –and now they are somewhere in the middle of the preserve sometime around midnight fighting a whole damn coven.

It’s not exactly a real fight, neither side is that into it despite the fact lives are most definitely on the line. (He doesn’t panic, doesn’t bite back a yell whenever a spell strays far too close to them for comfort). It’s all so anti-climactic and unexciting that Stiles doesn’t even bother helping –they don’t need it and it’s late, so he’ll just sit there and watch until it’s over or he can maybe, possibly, help them.

“Stiles, get back!” Somebody yells, it’s a mess of bodies and all Stiles can discern is that the voice is male, which doesn’t really narrow it down and it’s not like it’s important anyways. Instead of deigning the yell with a response, he kicks back from his spot on the ground and rolls his eyes. He’s literally, as far as he can be while still within watching distance and it’s not as if the witches would bother him, he may be pack but he hasn’t harmed them.

Except, one of them seems to look over in his direction, tilting her head with a curious expression, and Stiles feels a vague (not vague at  _all_ ) sense of foreboding at the action. Then she smiles and winks – _fucking winks_  –at him, before firing off a spell.

He yelps and falls over, cursing his life the whole (admittedly short, considering he’s already on the ground,) way down, and just kind of sighs when it hits him. It doesn’t hurt –isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not –but everything is spinning and fuzzy and well, that, that isn’t good.

Then it’s all black.

He hates that.

-

Stiles wakes up and he’s not where he passed out, sure he’s still in the same clearing, but way more towards the middle then he remembers and – _god how did he get here he doesn’t remember._

(He still sleepwalks on occasion and it terrifies him beyond belief; hell, he woke up on the floor of his bedroom once instead of the bed and  _screamed_. Swore he saw the Nogitsune at the edge of his sight, swore he heard its voice.)

“Stiles, Stiles, it’s okay.” He hears the words but that’s it, that’s all they sound like, words. All separate and disconnected and he doesn’t understand how they’re supposed to join to make a sentence. “Stiles, you’re fine, you’re safe.” His breaths are coming in too fast, too short, and if this keeps up he might pass out again and that can’t happen.

(Let me in, Stiles. Let me in.)

There’s a torrent of  _no, no, no, not again, not ever_ stuck in the back of his throat but he can’t find the breath to say them, can’t find the breath to breathe. For a second he’s terrified he’s going to say yes and let it back in despite the fact it’s not there anymore, that it’s been caught and safely locked away.

He’s not always sure of that.

“Stiles, calm down.” A voice says from somewhere around him.

And he does.

His panic subsides, the black that has been swimming at the edge of his vision recedes, he can  _breathe_  again. He bites back what would maybe have been a sob –thankfully, we’ll never know –but doesn’t stop himself from clinging onto the nearest person.

Maybe, it’s a habit that he picked up from being around werewolves so much, but physical contact is nice. Physical contact is grounding. (Even if it’s not capable of telling you whether you’re awake or not; but it would be too perfect then.) At some point, they say something about taking him to Deaton, probably to check up on the spell, but he really just wants to go home. He says as much, pesters them into submission when they try to say otherwise, and eventually gets taken home.

His dreams are blissfully blank.

-

Later, in the morning, he’ll think about how weird (odd, wrong) it was.

Because panic attacks don’t just  _stop_ , he doesn’t just go from being unable to breathe, from being in a body where the skin feels to tight, like he’s about to get squeezed out of his own body, to being fine.

Later, he’ll simply chalk it up to the awesome calming skills his friends have, because what else could it be?

-

It takes a while for him to notice anything is even wrong to be honest. The next day they had taken him to Deaton despite his insistence that he was fine, (but then again, they had a habit of fussing over the smallest things with him nowadays. You get possessed by an evil fox spirit  _one time_  and –nope, still can’t joke about it, not even in his head. Anyways,) Deaton had said that there was some residual magic lingering around him but that he couldn’t discern exactly what it was. That it was probably nothing bad because the spell didn’t seem to be offensive. He didn’t miss Deaton’s pensive face though, because Stiles noticed these things, especially when it came to people like Deaton –sketchy as fuck people.

So yeah, he kind of forgets about the fact he was hit by a spell that they still had no clue what it was. It fades into background that is the monotony of everyday, non-supernatural, life.

Except it really doesn’t, he starts to  _notice_  things.

It’s really subtle; like, so subtle that if Stiles hadn’t been raised by a cop, wasn’t naturally inclined to pay a little too much attention to minor details (darn/thank you curiosity), along with the newly acquired need to notice the smallest strange occurrences. Because you just never know, when you’re friends with werewolves and the entire evil supernatural community has a habit of crashing their supposedly nice and quiet town. He probably wouldn’t have noticed at all.

But he does.

It’s small things, like when a teacher tells him to pay attention he does. Which isn’t a bad thing, he would’ve done it anyways, but it’s with better focus than his ADHD riddled brain should ever be able to manage. Or when his dad calls for help with the groceries, he’s down and ready way faster than he normally would –always too comfortable to move right away.

It’s so many small things that could be passed off as normal and he does, because in the mess that is his life a sudden increase in his helpfulness and ability to do as told isn’t his greatest concern. It isn’t even all the time.

He’s probably imagining it anyways.

-

He wasn’t imagining it.

He gets confirmation that it –whatever  _it_  is –is real during a pack meeting. Or well, after a pack meeting, they’re all hanging around Derek’s loft (which he’s finally fixing up, which finally actually looks like a livable location) and he and Derek are arguing about the merits of a character in this one book they’re reading.

(Stiles thinks the guy is a self-entitled asshole, Derek thinks the guy is just _misunderstood_  –it kind of makes him want to barf the way Derek says it.)

And it’s nice, they’re joking in a way that they are actually able to do now –nice and comfortable and not at all threatening.

But then, Derek says, with no actual heat behind his words, “Shut up, Stiles.”

He rolls his eyes before Derek even has the sentence out, retort already ready to say, but then he doesn’t. Doesn’t say what he meant to say. Doesn’t say anything at all;  _can’t_  say anything at all. He opens his mouth but no words come out, tries to yell but that comes up short too.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks, as if he can’t see Stiles making stupid movements with his mouth. Or, actually, maybe that’s why he’s asking. He glares anyway; this is Derek’s fault (somehow).

(And if he’s making irrational judgements in his head to avoid the panic of the fact _he can’t fucking talk because Derek said so_ , well, no one has to know _._ )

Derek raises an eyebrow and Stiles huffs –at least sounds that are more breath than anything are still on the table –indignantly at him, punching him lightly in the stomach. Derek gives him a wounded look, because werewolves are actually fucking puppies when they want to be, but Stiles is mad okay. He can’t talk, and Derek hasn’t noticed, because the man is oblivious sometimes, so much so that it hurts.

“Stiles?” Derek asks, and Stiles swears, if he asks if he’s okay, he’ll scream so loud that stupid silence curse be damned, Derek will hear it, people in China will hear it. “Stiles, say something.”

He sags with relief, sags okay, he is so relieved right now it’s ridiculous.

“Don’t say that.” He huffs.

“Say what St –”

“Don’t say anything, like at all, I’m talking right now.” Derek tilts his head ever so slightly (he’s good at noticing things, he’s been over this) and Stiles would be tempted to find it cute but he’s angry! Upset, something relatively negative.

“I think I know what the spell that hit me does.” He starts with, and then continues without waiting for a response. “An obedience spell, or something, I mean you told me to not talk and I physically couldn’t, it was horrible.”

“There are –”

“Are what?”

“I ju–”

“Do you think I’m lying why would I lie about this?”

“Stiles, listen to me!” His mouth snaps shut, how nostalgic really, and he leans, _leans_ , towards Derek.

“Alright, I’m listening.” He says involuntarily (he would shiver if his body allowed him to, nothing should ever happen to him he can’t control again) before shutting up once more.

Derek looks like he wants to say something, call him out on his bullshit because he probably thinks Stiles is joking, probably thinks he’s being a sarcastic little shit. But then he pauses, takes a good look and then his face changes. He wonders if his utter dislike of being forced to do this shows on his face.

“Shit.” Derek says, and Stiles assumes that’s a yes.

“Yeah, shit.”

-

The good part of the pack not leaving is that they don’t have to call them back over to explain. The good part of the pack being made up of werewolves is that sometimes they’re creepy assholes with no sense of privacy and just eavesdrop on conversations so at least he doesn’t have to repeat himself.

Except he kind of does because Lydia and Kira don’t have super senses (he thinks Kira might though, eventually) and Scott is an actual nice guy who doesn’t eavesdrop (except he does, he was just distracted this time, he’ll still let Scott have his imaginary ‘not an asshole’ point though).

“So you have to do whatever anyone tells you too?” Kira asks, sounding concerned and excited at the same time.

“I mean, I guess?” He replies, because it’s not as if he knows how spells work. It’s not like he’s a witch with spell casting abilities.

“Do my laundry then.” Isaac says, and it’s weird because Stiles  _wants_  to, like some strange compulsion, but doesn’t feel forced to like it was before, like it’s been the other times. It’s barely just manageable to not do it.

The struggle must be evident on his face because everyone looks at him vaguely concerned and Scott’s frowning when he asks “Dude, you okay?”

“Yeah, I am, I just, sort of want to? Like I want to just get up and do Isaac’s laundry really badly, but I don’t  _have_  to, you know?” The look on Scott’s face says no, he doesn’t know at all.

Stiles sighs.

“Maybe the spell has a condition.” Peter offers, and Stiles really doesn’t think about the fact Peter of all people knows Stiles is under some weird obedience curse/spell/thing. It kind of makes him want to cry, just a little bit.

“Can you think of anything that’s been a factor every time you think the spell has worked?” Lydia asks from her spot on the couch, not even sparing him a glance. She’s doing something to Malia’s hair, who looks completely put out with the entire ordeal.

“Uh,” he says, pausing and thinking hard. “Oh! The person said my name each time, I think.”

Isaac snorts, because he continues to be an asshole, and tries again. “Okay, Stiles, go do my laundry.”

He stands up abruptly, feet moving towards the door despite the fact he didn’t tell them too. “I hate you Isaac Lahey, I hate you so much right now.” He walks out of the house, leaving a confused and possibly stunned group of people behind.

-

He gets as far as starting his car before an apologetic –hah –looking Isaac runs up to him and tells him never mind, that he doesn’t have too.

He sighs, hits Isaac as hard as he can, and then just goes home.

-

Mainly he’s glad his friend group is small and not at a lot of people talk to him, he doesn’t think about what could happen if some random person told him to do something.

He’s extremely glad Jackson’s gone (and oh wow, when was the last time he thought about that asshole); this would’ve been horrible if Jackson knew.

-

It’s weird, mainly terrifying, going to school knowing the slightest comment could do god knows what to him.

Still, the most people do is ask him for a pencil or some other stationary that they should’ve already had. He ends up giving out so many that he ends up giving up his own, and when one more person asks after that; Scott’s.

By lunch, he has no writing utensils whatsoever and decidedly hates his life.

He feels a deep emotional connection to Ella from Ella Enchanted, obedience sucks so hard.

(Except, unlike Ella, looking hard into a mirror and saying “you will not be obedient anymore” doesn’t work at all. He would know, he tried for a good half hour.

So, he kind of hates her too, but, then again, he hasn’t held a knife to the back of his ‘one true love’ so they’re probably even. Probably.)

“Do any of you have a pencil I can borrow?” He asks sullenly.

Malia and Isaac laugh at the horribleness that is his life, Scott looks concerned and sad, and Lydia just looks at him as if she’s disappointed in him –she probably is.

Only Kira offers him a pencil.

Kira is an angel.

He tells her as much, and she smiles and blushes, like the modest angel she is. Scott picks the nicest girls; he picks actual angels. He jerks straight and busies himself with eating, not even bothering to protest when Malia asks –demands –for his dessert, talking would involve thinking, and right now isn’t the best moment for that.

-

As it turns out, despite knowing the spell now, there isn’t much to do in ways to getting it fixed or stopped. The most tried and true way is to simply ask the witch to undo the curse themselves, but that option went out the window the moment they decided fighting them was a good idea.

In the end, the most they can do is wait around for Deaton to give them some news on how to break it, or go about breaking it. It mostly sucks considering it means Stiles is stuck with the curse for an indefinite amount of time.

Either way, they’re back at Derek’s loft tonight to watch a movie –Kira and Malia had suggested it, Kira to encourage bonding but Malia just seemed excited by the idea –and it’s so nice and normal that Stiles can almost pretend that none of this is happening.

Almost, because things never stay right for long in Stiles’ life.

They’re maybe half way through the movie (and it’s horrible, horrible. So many clichés and plot holes, it’s actually the worst thing ever) when Scott gets fed up with his constant moving and complaining.

“Stiles, be quiet and sit still already!” He says this every time they watch a movie because Stiles is just horrible at sitting still and shutting up, but it’s the only time he actually listens. Though it probably doesn’t constitute listening when he’s forced to do it whether he wants to or not.

He makes it all of ten seconds before starting to mildly panic.

Stiles has never been still, it’s part of him to always shake a leg, shift around, to be in constant motion. However, after the Nogitsune (who was always still, so still) it became almost necessary, if he’s still for too long he’s reminded of it. (And as if a part of it never left him, sometimes he just is still, still in a way he had never been before). Reminded of how it wasn’t him, but wore his face.

Made him feel so alien in his own body that for a full week after he got back he couldn’t bare look in the mirror because he didn’t see himself. He saw it, saw the blood it caused, the people it killed.

And right now, he’s still like it was, in a way that looks like a statue, perfectly made and perfectly still. A carved stone set in time.

He focuses all his might on trying to move a single finger but it doesn’t work and it just makes his panic worse. Not only is he still, he can’t even control his own body and this isn’t a position he ever wanted to be in again, a position he can be in again.

He tries yelling but it barely comes out above a whisper, apparently, ‘be quiet’ means you can talk but no one can hear you.

He wonders if the fact no one is looking at him means they can’t hear his heartbeat, if that’s part of the whole ‘be quiet’ thing, because his breaths are coming in short (quiet) gasps and he knows that goes hand in hand with a thundering heart.

Mostly he wishes he would just pass out so he wouldn’t have to be conscious for this horrible experience. Mostly he wishes a void fox hadn’t decided he was the perfect choice for a host and made it so he can’t even not move without panicking.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when a hand jostles his shoulder, he’d look to see who it is, but, you know, can’t and all.

“Stiles,” And oh, it’s Derek, “Stiles, move.” And he’d say something in retort but it wouldn’t come out half as loud as he’d need it to for it to sound even mildly offensive, so what’s the point. Mainly he’s upset because Derek said move but he still can’t and why the hell not?

Derek growls –is that supposed to make him move? –and looks up, “Scott did you tell Stiles to sit still?”

He notices the movies still playing because the rooms still dark, because it takes Scott a second to pull his attention away from it.

“Yeah, why’d you as –shit, crap, Stiles I’m so sorry, you can move, and talk, just. Movement, movement in general and yeah…” Scott’s still rambling but Stiles stopped listening the moment he could move a finger. Currently, he’s working on getting every piece of his body to move at least twice and, maybe then, he’ll be satisfied.

He excuses himself a little while later to go for a walk, because right now he just needs to move. Needs motion, need to not be even close to still for a couple hours. He expected to go alone but isn’t surprised when Derek offers to come with, he knows well enough that Derek was as bored with the movie as he was and would take any chance to leave.

-

Stiles is making a list of rules and conditions for this spell/curse/bane of his existence –and yes, ah yes, his own personal wolfsbane. So far, he’s got;

  1. For an order to be listened to without question his name must be said (considering it’s not his given name, it’s probably just referring to him in specific but he hasn’t tested it out).
  2. A command that is not specified to him will bring about the urge or compulsion to be obeyed but is not forced to be completed.
  3. A command can only be ended/stopped by the one who issued it.



Today, he learns rule number four

  1. If completion of a command is interrupted by anything other than a stop order, the ordered person gets a bit violent.



They never told his dad about the spell, despite the fact he knew about everything else (darn/thank you Jennifer), it didn’t seem important and it still really doesn’t. However, when his dad calls him and asks him to go buy the groceries and put them away, he wishes he had told him earlier –or at all. So at least that way he could’ve phrased it in the way that is not a command, or at least maybe not said his name.

Though, as always, life is full of should have’s and could have’s and in the end Stiles doesn’t even hesitate to tear himself from his essay (he’s crying on the inside because he was in the groove, man) and get out the door and towards the nearest supermarket.

There’s another thing he noticed, but didn’t include it as a rule or anything because it doesn’t really affect anything, is that when the command is an actual task after a while everything else sort of fades until it feels like it’s the only thing that matters. Stiles would probably drive by a collapsing building full of crying children inside without a second thought just because his dad had said go get the groceries. It’s scary because literally nothing else is important while he’s doing it, he can do nothing else but it. It borders on panic scary but he manages to not.

Anyways, he learns about rule number four when he’s back home putting the groceries away.

Scott comes in (despite the door being locked, Stiles probably gave him a key and doesn’t even remember) and says something to him, he doesn’t know what because he can hear it but he’s not listening. He needs to focus on putting away these groceries and then and  _only_  then can he listen to what Scott is saying.

Except apparently no one told Scott that because he just! Takes the bag of groceries away! Just takes it. And something somewhere just kind of snaps, because Scott’s preventing him from completing his order, from being obedient, and that’s bad, bad, bad.

He blanks out for a second.

The next, Scott is yelling his name while Stiles is trying to blink away the fuzziness in his head and get his bearings. He comes to attention just in time to notice the fact he has a knife –where did that come from –to Scott’s neck and there are a million words running around his head, most of them are various forms of apologies.

What he ends up saying is a grit out “give me back the bag” which Scott listens to with wide terrified eyes.

He was going to apologize then but with the bag in his hand again he just really, _really_ , needs to get this done so he leaves behind a terrified Scott and goes about in the kitchen.

He starts humming at some point and isn’t afraid to admit that it scares him, he’s scared of himself, he may or not cry and/or die soon if they don’t fix this.

When he’s done, they don’t talk about it, Scott apologizes for getting in the way and then they go play some videogames.

Stiles pretends he didn’t just almost kill his friend (for the second time, his traitorous mind supplies) as he zooms past Scott’s character in Mario Kart.

It’s quiet and unassuming, so reminiscent of life before all this that he almost forgets about it. Is almost convinced that this is his life.

-

  1. The spell is always active, even in dreams



Stiles knows the tricks to knowing whether you’re awake or not, the ability to read, extra fingers, and even more he’s searched for after the whole ordeal with the Nogitsune. They felt important to know, they comforted him, knowing these facts. Though he doesn’t always need them, sometimes he just knows he’s sleeping.

Like right now.

Because in the world where he’s awake Allison doesn’t look over and punch him lightly in the arm, in the world where his waking consciousness lies, he doesn’t get to see her smile and throw her head back in a laugh.

In the real world, Allison doesn’t do any of these things because Allison is dead.

By of his hands, by his own doing.

(And nothing will ever convince him otherwise.)

He wants to enjoy this, these dreams where she is, where she feels alive. Because if he closes his eyes and doesn’t think, just listens to her voice, he can almost believe that she’s alive. But he knows where this dream goes, knows what she’ll say, what she’ll try to make him do.

“Stiles,” her voice is always so light, as if she’s unaware of the fact that she’s dead, as if she’s unaware of what she’s about to do, “you look so sad. Come on, I know what’ll cheer you up.”

He shakes his head no despite the fact he knows he’s going to follow her, because the alternative of staying here in the dark of a place he’s never been able to identify is for some reason worse than what follows.

As they walk she talks to him, but he stopped listening ages ago, he used to cling on to her every word when he first started having this dream, in part for comfort, in part for punishment. Eventually it didn’t feel like either, it just made him ache, made him feel selfish for clinging to a dream of all things to not have to let her go, to accept the fact she’s gone because he was weak and fragile and useless.

“Open your eyes, Stiles.” He doesn’t want to, but he does, as he always does.

There in the Argent basement, a place that still makes his skin crawl, and Allison is smiling sweetly at him.

“Did you feel weak then, Stiles? Helpless? Useless?” She’s still smiling at him, but her tone is sorrowful.

He doesn’t answer, knows she doesn’t expect him too.

They go from location to location; the hospital, his own room, the school pool, Malia’s den, Eichen house, Scott’s living room, Allison’s place of death and then, as always, they end off at the burnt remains of the Hale house.

Allison’s still smiling, she’s always smiling, it stopped being a nice site a while ago, it stopped being comforting so long ago. He hates these dreams for tarnishing them.

“Take this, Stiles.” He doesn’t take it, it’s already in his hands, and he can feel its weight firm and heavy in his hands.

Allison had told him and Scott what had happened on that night so many months ago, how Peter had slit Kate’s throat with his claws, eyes lit up with glee as her body fell and the light left her eyes for good.

(Except they didn’t, but that had passed, that was dealt with, and was a time best forgotten.)

“You can do it. It’s okay.”

“I don’t want to.” He says, shaking his head frantically.

And then, it will go on like that; he’ll continue to refuse until he wakes up covered in sweat, the hand that was holding the knife clutched so tight it leaves bright red crescents in his skin. It’s how it always goes.

“Do it, Stiles, kill me.”

His eyes snap open because his feet are moving, his hand is raising, and she’s getting so close and he wants her to move but he knows it won’t work, knows she won’t budge.

He’s glad it all goes blissfully blank for the split second it takes for him to cut down and across.

She’s still smiling when the knife cuts through her throat, still smiling when the blood covers his hands and begins to drip onto the floor. She’s still smiling even when her eyes dull and all Stiles hears is his own screaming.

-

He wakes up screaming in his dad’s arms, and he feels so pathetic because he got past this, got past waking up terrified and fear-filled. He feels stupid and pointless but all he can see is Allison dying, Allison beautiful, smiling, and blood covered. Allison no longer breathing,  _again,_  because of him,  _again._

“We’re sorry.” He says, repeats, repeats as if the words are like breathing and he can’t get enough in, can’t get enough out.

And yeah, sometimes when he gets too stressed his speaks in third person, he doesn’t know why, doesn’t want to know why.

(Except he does, he just hates thinking about it.)

Really, all he wants right now is to not feel like he’s falling apart just when he was starting to feel somewhat whole again.

-

The next day at school (his dad had said he could stay home but he didn’t want to be in the house, in his room) he plugs in headphones and plays the music as loud as he can. Drowns out all the noise until the only thing he can hear is the thrum of music.

The teachers give him looks, knows they want to say something to him but refrain from doing so. He knows his music is loud from the way people look at him when they pass, but he’s doing his work, is actually being quiet for once. And that coupled with the fact his teacher had been told something about his disappearance and then absence –he was never told what –keep them from questioning him or telling him otherwise.

He’s grateful because today he doesn’t want to hear a thing today, not a single word from anyone. Not even his friends, who are giving him concerned looks, because he doesn’t need that. Doesn’t need their pity and concern because sure, everything rather sucks a hell of a lot right now but for the most part Stiles is fine, Stiles is  _great_.Right now, nothing matters but the song he’s listening to.

It’s nice, the song that is.

-

A couple days later Deaton calls, says that he has got a lead and it shouldn’t be more than a week until he’s found a cure. That he just needs to check up on a couple things, and refer to some people but he’s pretty much done.

He tells Deaton he loves him and only gets a chuckle in reply, Stiles doesn’t rather care, he does love Deaton right now. Loves him so much, because he’s going to take this stupid curse away and then Stiles can stop feeling as if the world is coming apart.

-

“I’m done, done with everything; once this is over I’m going to sign up to be a swim instructor or something and then I’ll be in charge, I’ll be giving orders.” He says through a slice of pizza, frowning even as he tastes its cheesy goodness.

“It’s not that bad,” Scott tries, but his sheepish smile gives him away; he knows Stiles life is shit and is only saying that out of best friend obligation. He appreciates the thought, he really does, but Scott needs to shut and help him complain about his pitiful life.

“I gave a kid fifty dollars, fifty! Then when people saw me do it, they started asking me for some too! I’m poor now Scott, poor, I had to steal your money just to get them all away and done with.”

“Wait you what?”

“Anyways,” he says, in lieu of answering Scott’s question because, oops, he wasn’t supposed to say that, “my life is horrible and I want ice cream, someone should get me ice cream.”

Malia laughs but gets up to get him some; she can be so nice when she isn’t being an absolute asshole. He relates to her in that way.

He leans against Derek and whines, spreading his legs over Scott and Kira to get comfortable. It’s funny because Derek looks like he wants to tell him to sit up but won’t because it’s not fair, not right if he’s going to do it will be damned.

Derek’s a stupidly nice guy and he takes advantage of it by snuggling into him and snickering when Derek just sighs in response.

He offers him some ice cream later when Malia gives it to him, Stiles can be nice when he wants to be, really. He rolls his eyes when he offers, but takes some anyways, and Stiles is pleased because he totally saw Derek’s lip twitch upwards.

-

He doesn’t remember falling asleep but he wakes up to fingers threading his hair; it feels nice, comforting, he sighs contentedly and shifts closer, leaning into the hand and turning into the warmth. It’s like this for all of five minutes before he’s more conscious then asleep.

“’erek?” The hand stills for a moment, and he’d whine about it because it felt nice but he’s too lazy, and then continues again after another.

“It’s late, everyone went home already.”

“Cool” He says, because he might not be asleep but proper sentences are beyond him right now.

“Do you need to get home? I didn’t want to wake you.”

“S’fine, dad knows ’m ‘ere.” He answers, sitting up and stretching, only somewhat (totally) missing the warmth.

“Well I’m going to make something to eat you want to help?” He says it casually, like it’s nothing, but Stiles can hear the strange lilt to his voice. He doesn’t focus on that though, instead he focuses on the fact that Derek asked, that he had a choice on whether he wants to do something, that’d he’d been asked. It feels like forever since Stiles has had a choice in something.

And it takes him a second to realize that he means more than just this spell, and wow, that sucks. His life sucks.

“Yeah, I’d love too.” He replies, instead of spewing the hundreds of thoughts that are spinning around his head right now.

They make sandwiches, like, four different kinds, and multiples of each. It’s too many sandwiches; he knows they aren’t goanna eat them all, that they’ll have left over sandwiches for days.

He finds he doesn’t rather care; it’s pleasant to do a mindless activity that he choose to do.  Nice to be in full control of his actions, mainly it feels the nicest to do it with Derek. Who has always understood best of everyone else what it’s like to feel lost. To feel like you have no control, to feel like everything is falling apart.

Nevertheless, Derek got better, is more trusting and open, –especially after everything was settled with Kate 2.0 (but they really, really, don’t talk about that)–and it makes Stiles feel like he can be whole again one day too. Like, things actually do get better eventually, even if it does take over seven years for it to do so.

And that, if nothing else, gives him hope.

-

He doesn’t know where he is but he’s cold, so cold. He can see his breath coming out in short puffs but despite the fact he feels cold, knows he’s cold, he’s not shivering at all. He knows that’s bad, for some reason, it’s not good.

Something about conserving energy, right?

He doesn’t want to think about it though, just wants to lie on this cold, hard, ground. (There’s a joke there somewhere, he thinks.) Lie here and think about nothing again ever, it’s somewhat comfortable in a way. You know, if he ignores the biting cold and the fact that the ground kind of digs into his back awkwardly for a surface that should be flat. So, actually, it’s actually not comfortable at all and he has no idea why he said it was.

Actually, he feels a bit scared, even though he doesn’t know why he is. What’s causing him to feel such a strong sense of fear; he’s too tired to spend too much time dwelling on it. What he wants is to sleep but something about that sound wrong too.

However, if sleeping and lying here are wrong, then what is he supposed to do?

The only option left is stand up and walk around, which he does if only to get some semblance of warmth into him, to get body to feel something other than numbingly cold. The room is eerie, makes the sense of fear spike and goose bumps ghost along his skin –it’s actually interesting that he can get those when he’s so cold, as if his already present goose bumps have goose bumps.

He sees it then, a carving on the wall, something akin to the number five, and the memories rush in. He doesn’t know what kept them away in the first place but he thinks he’d prefer them gone –he  _knows_  he’d prefer them gone.

Swallowing his panic, he spreads both hands in front of him and starts counting. He doesn’t know what number he gets, it’s over ten, it’s below ten, but it definitely _isn’t_ ten. It feels like every number but ten.

Therefore, he’s dreaming, it’s not exactly a comforting thought. This all started with his dreams didn’t it?

(Except it didn’t, it started the moment Stiles thought it was a fantastic idea to look for a dead body in the woods –and really wouldn’t everyone be better if Stiles just _didn’t_  sometimes. Didn’t say things, do things, exist.)

“ _What gets bigger, the more you take away,_ Stiles?” His heart hammers in his chest but other than that, he’s fine. (He isn’t.) Just like the Allison one, he’s had this dream before, not as often but infinitely more terrifying. Still, he knows he’s fine, that nothing can happen because this is a dream and the Nogitsune is gone, defeated by the pack.

It’s not as comforting as he wants to believe it is.

“A hole.” He says at last.

“ _Why no Stiles, that’s wrong. It’s insanity, the more of it you take away the more comes to take its place._ ” That doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t, he knows this for a fact, but nothing makes sense. Nothing ever makes sense in his life, and he is insane isn’t he?

He finds himself nodding, but it’s a frantic thing and he’s half worries his head is about to pop off.

“ _We’ve missed you, Stiles; we were only trying to save you._ ” He never did find out what it had meant by that, and now he doesn’t (but he does) care to.

“Go away.” He mutters, “Get out,” he says louder, but just as unenthusiastic.

“ _We can help Stiles; you just have to let us in._ ” It’s an offer, a question, a choice. And Stiles laughs and laughs, because out of all things that have been a choice in his life this one wasn’t, sure it made it seem like it but it pushed and pushed until Stiles didn’t have a choice but to let it in. Until the only option he had was to give in to an evil fox-spirit bent on killing everyone he loves in the worst way possible.

The Nogitsune feeds on strife, pain, and chaos.

He doesn’t know how this dream ends because he barely knows how this dream starts; he just wants it all to be over with forever.

“ _Let me in, Stiles._ ” It’s a dream and Stiles wonders if it knows; if this figment of his damaged mind knows he can’t refuse it. That this isn’t like before where repeating that phrase was just crazed insistence. It’s a demand, an order, and it’s one Stiles can’t go against.

Stiles laughs harder because if he doesn’t he’ll say yes, if he stops laughing for a second his body will move of his own accord and let it in again, let it ruin everything again. He doesn’t want to find out what accepting an imaginary void spirit into his being will do.

Instead, he laughs until it hurts and his throat is so sore it hurts to breathe.

His mouth opens to say yes and –

Stiles wakes up.

-

It’s not something he’d ever say aloud, it’s barely something he can say to himself, but sometimes he misses it. Misses its presence.

He hates himself for thinking it, because it killed people –and Stiles definitely doesn’t miss that. The thing is though, it  _was_  a part of him, it lived with him, inside him for almost (over) two months and something happened.  As much as he hated it, as much as he wanted it to leave and never come back, he didn’t want to let go.

(‘We’re only trying to help, Stiles,” it would say, “We only wish to save you.” It would continue; he wonders if any of that was true. Stiles has always needed saving, from himself, from others, from the horrible disaster that is his life.)

He feels empty some days (most days); because you can’t live so closely entwined to something and then just have it ripped from you. The Nogitsune had become part of him, and now part of him is gone.

It’s like a void in his very being.

The void the void left behind.

It’s so horrible Stiles can’t help but laugh (just a tad hysterically) every time he thinks about it.

-

When he wakes up, he doesn’t scream, doesn’t panic, doesn’t do much of anything. He just feels empty, just feels void.

(The Nogitsune is trapped inside the box, and no one can confirm if it’s dead or not –it’s not as if they can open the box to check –and sometimes, sometimes Stiles _wants_.

He counts his fingers again and again and again, until the feeling passes, until he doesn’t feel horrified by his own self.)

There’s someone talking beside him, saying words he can’t be bothered to hear because right now he feels about as horrible outside as he’s been feeling inside.

“Stiles, talk to me.” He doesn’t want to, would rather go back to sleep –forget, forget, and forget again –but it’s not like he has a choice.

“I’m a horrible person,” he says then, “I mean, what kind of person  _wants_ something that killed people –that killed his friends –back.” He continues before Derek can interrupt with some nonsense about how he’s not, because he is.

“Did you know the spells active even in dreams? I learned that by –I learned that, in a dream.” He stops, breathes in as much air as he can because it feels like he has none, and wishes he was anywhere else but here.

“I dreamt about it, like, right now. It was there, it told me to let it in and I, I couldn’t say no, I would’ve said yes if I hadn’t woken up –and would that have even meant, what would’ve even happened if I had said yes.” He tries laughing; he isn’t sure what that sound that comes out of his mouth qualifies as.

“Stiles –“

“Please don’t say anything,” he begs, “I just feel empty sometimes, all the time; it’s gone and it left the space it made behind and I just want it filled.” He scrubs his hands against his face and wills his voice to be steady. “I should go; I shouldn’t have told you any of this, it’s my problem.”

“Stiles, wait.” He’s practically out the door when his feet freeze mid-step.

“That’s not fair Derek, you can’t make me stay.”

“I just” He can’t see Derek, not from the position he’s frozen in, and he wonders what kind of face he’s making right now. What kind of face he makes after he’s been told someone misses the homicidal spirit that had forcibly taken control of their body.

“Let me go home, Derek.” He whispers, doesn’t trust his voice to go any higher.

“Stiles,” and he recognizes that tone, the tone of someone with something to say but unsure of what or whether they should, “fine, you can go.”

He looks back at Derek, or more specifically his general direction, he can’t bring himself to make eye contact with him at the moment.

“Don’t tell anyone what I told you, I shouldn’t have told you either. I’m fine; I’m not going to go possibly release it.”  _Though sometimes I think about it,_  he leaves unsaid, and wonders if Derek can hear it, if he knows.

He doesn’t think about it on the way home, or at all.

-

Just two days later, they’re at Deaton’s clinic to undo the spell, the whole pack is there and Stiles is grateful because it means more distractions from the looks Derek keeps giving him. One’s he won’t turn to look at because he doesn’t want to know what he’ll find there.

The reversal spell goes off without a hitch, and when Lydia tells him to make him a sandwich, to check if it’s really gone, he doesn’t want too. Well, he does, but no more so than normal, there’s a lot he’d do for Lydia.

 He laughs and cheers and they laugh along with him, he’s happy but he doubts they really understand why. In the end, it doesn’t really matter.

-

They drag him to Derek’s loft the next day; tell him they have a surprise waiting for him there. It turns out to be a party for him, and as the guest of honour, he’s given the power to make them do whatever he wants. Like the spell he was under, with no restrictions whatsoever.

It makes him feel warm and fuzzy that they trust him to not do anything too outrageous.

Highlights include:

Getting Scott and Isaac to kiss, and there’s a look shared between them, and then shared between Kira, that makes him wonder what exactly he’s just done.

Getting Malia to give him a piggyback ride (“I’d gut you if I hadn’t already agreed to this dumb idea”) –she’s refused every time he’d asked before but she had no choice this time. Jokes on her because she ended up enjoying it just as much as he did; even offered him another one any time, any day.

Best of all was getting Lydia to make him a sandwich, which she promptly threw at his face. It was just like he’d expected and he laughed even as a piece of ham slid down his cheek.

They’re just sitting around now, talking aimlessly, and it’s moments like these Stiles really enjoys. Where they are just people talking, not a group made up of werewolves (plus coyote), a banshee, a kitsune and a broken little human. Not a group of people where they’ve watched people they love die, watch people they didn’t even know die.

Just a group a plain, normal, group of friends.

The break apart a couple moments later; Isaac, Scott and Kira are talking about something (he’s still not sure if he wants to know), and Peter’s telling Malia something while Lydia looks disapprovingly at him. Sometimes he’s pretty sure that Lydia is planning Peter’s death in the most perfect way, he’s kind of scared to ask her.

What’s really important though, is the fact that this means that it’s just him and Derek left. Derek, who he has been avoiding since three days ago, and doesn’t want to face now.

“I know what it’s like to feel alone too you know, to feel like something is missing.” Derek says, after five minutes of Stiles determinedly not looking in Derek’s direction, and wow. Technically, Stiles knew this, knew Derek lost his whole family (other than Laura and Peter and, then, Cora), then he lost Laura too, and he just never seemed to have Cora even when she came back from out of nowhere. Technically, he knows Derek has suffered great loss and that it had affected him.

But it’s one thing to know, and one thing to be told.

“After the fire, after Laura, I would’ve done anything to bring them back. And I mean anything.” Stiles flinches, and looks at his lap, still not finding the strength to look up at him. “I won’t judge you for it.”

It means a lot; he knows Derek knows how much it means to him.

“You said would’ve, what’s changed.” He looks at him when he says it, and it’s as close to a thank you as Derek’s going to get from him right now.

“It gets easier, you find new things to care about, and the hole gets filled.”

He stares at his hands, wrapped in bandages, covered in blood –he frowns.

“Really?” He asks voice barely higher than a whisper.

“I promise.” Derek says, and Stiles can tell he means it.

“I’ve got one more request, you, uh; don’t have to do it if you don’t want.” Derek nods his head, silently telling him to continue.

He opens his mouth, pauses, closes it again, and then repeats the process, before finally blurting out; “Kiss me.” His face is red, he knows, can feel the warmth, and embarrassed he looks away.

He’s still blushing when Derek turns his head to face his once again, smiles softly and locks his lips with his.

It’s not Stiles’ first kiss, but it feels like it is. It’s not Heather’s, desperate and wanting by her but just confused by him. Not Lydia’s, which was just to get him to stop panicking. Not Caitlyn’s, which took him by surprise and was infused by the confusion of being kissed by someone he didn’t even know was into guys.

Kissing Derek is kissing someone with purpose, kissing someone because he wants. It feels as soft, and light as he had always imagined kissing someone for the first time would feel like and he finds himself smiling even while they’re still kissing.

When they break apart Stiles feels slightly dazed and extremely content, content enough that when he hears Malia and Lydia catcall, and Scott shout ‘finally’ he doesn’t even bother to deign them with a response.

“That was nice, really nice, uh, thanks for doing that. You really didn’t have too.”

“I wanted too.” Derek says simply, and Stiles didn’t even realise he had wanted that answer so bad until something inside him uncurls at the words.

He stares at his hands, intertwined with Derek’s and covered in pleasant warmth –he smiles.

A piece of the puzzle that is his being clicks into place, and Stiles, for the first time in a long while, feels like he can actually put himself back together, fill the void the Nogitsune left behind. Fill it with friends, family, and the care that he so often forgets people have for him.

Kira yells at them to make out again and he laughs, kissing Derek’s cheek with a smile.

There’s a void in him, left by the void, but it no longer makes him feel like he’s choking on nothing, like he’ll break if it doesn’t fill it, be consumed and become void himself.

He’s not weak, he’s not alone, and he’ll believe in Derek’s word that things get better, because it feels like they already have.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't end it right, it wasn't working so I'm kind of unhappy with this fic, still I am very much in love with post-nogitsune Stiles and it was very nice to write that.  
> (I am also very much in love with Nogitsune(!Stiles)/Stiles, but that's for a different time)  
> Also, sorry for any possible mistakes or contradictions in this fic, it's done and i'm done with it.  
> -  
> my [tumblr](http://www.tvvinsky.tumblr.com)  
> -


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